


Configurations of Sanctified Loose Ends

by Feelforfaith



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Post-Filming Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 15:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feelforfaith/pseuds/Feelforfaith
Summary: "Why do you ask questions to which you know the answer?"Dominic concentrated on his plate; he jabbed a pancake with a fork, tore off a piece, moved it around his plate, suddenly not that hungry anymore. "Because I'm a masochist?""Not in bed, you aren't."Dominic's heart skipped a bit. He looked up. The smile on Viggo's face transformed it into something intimately familiar, and Dominic wanted to touch that smile so badly."It might've been a while, but there are some things I didn't forget," Viggo said.





	Configurations of Sanctified Loose Ends

_"Get your bloody life straight, Dom. Get your priorities straight, because right now they are all over the fucking place. And call me when you figure out what you want. For yourself." A pause. "And for us." Disconnect tone._

Dominic spent the last week playing Grand Theft Auto until dawn was breaking over L.A. He drank until he passed out only to wake up and start over again, trying to erase from his mind what Billy had said. Avoidance worked neatly for him in the past, but this time Billy's words had sunk into him like fish hooks—the only way to extricate them was to gnash his teeth and pull hard.

He'd never been good at handling pain.  
  


* * *  
  


The noise of Sunday traffic carried from a few blocks away, but it sounded muffled and not real here in the lazy, mid-morning sun. Sweat gathered in his armpits and his shirt stuck to his back. His stomach gurgled with the memory of a cold slice of pepperoni pizza from last night; after that it'd been only cigarettes and booze. A ladybug was making its way along the smooth curve of the door knocker, looking very much like it knew where it was heading and why. Unlike him. He waited for it to get off the door knocker, before he weighed the heavy iron in his hand and knocked, ignoring the doorbell.

He listened to the sound of footsteps approaching from inside.

Viggo opened the door, an apple in his hand frozen on its way to his mouth. "Dominic."

Dominic mock-saluted. "Hail to the King of Men," he said and snatched the apple out of Viggo's hand. He chomped off as much as would fit into his mouth, its sweet and tangy taste pouring over his tongue, and handed it back to Viggo. "Are you busy?"

"No, not really," Viggo said and bit off a piece of apple himself. Still holding the door, he stepped back to let Dominic in.

Dominic swung his shoulder bag over his head, dropped it in the corner near the door and followed Viggo to the kitchen. It'd been ... He tried to remember the last time he had been here, but his memory was hazy. A while, definitely.

Viggo, barefoot and wearing a threadbare t-shirt that sported a hole above the hem, stood half-hidden behind the open refrigerator door. "What do you want, water or apple juice?"

Dominic leaned against the kitchen table and crossed his arms on his chest. "Have you got any beer?"

Viggo lifted his head, one eyebrow up, giving Dominic a look. _The_ look.

"Oh, for fuckssake, don't start." His skin itched. He scratched his arm and looked away, out the window, into the garden. "Water. Can I have water? Please," he added quietly. A tree was blossoming in Viggo's garden, its pink-white flowers breaking out of the confines of their buds. The last time he'd been here, it was autumn.

Viggo closed the fridge and crossed the kitchen to where Dominic stood. "Here."

Still looking out into the garden, Dominic wrapped his fingers around the offered bottle and found not plastic, but cool glass. A Corona. Another bottle of Corona hung from Viggo's fingers.

"Thanks, mate," he said.

Viggo uncapped Dominic's bottle first, then his own, and dropped the opener onto the table, next to the half-eaten apple. "So, how are you?"

"Good." Dominic took a long, thirsty swig. The beer smoothed down his throat, cold and slightly bitter. Things were already looking up. "I'm good," he repeated and almost believed it.

"Okay," Viggo said and tipped the Corona to his mouth, but his gaze didn't leave Dominic.

It was an opening, a no-pressure invitation to bare his soul, or at least talk about whatever was on his mind, but words were not coming. Now, standing in Viggo's kitchen, for the first time he let himself admit that Billy might have been right. It didn't make talking about it any easier.

Viggo never felt the need to drag things out of him—the silence between them never felt uncomfortable. He could finish his beer and walk out without saying anything else, and it wouldn't feel strange at all, and the next time he and Viggo saw each other, neither of them would mention it, and they would carry on as if nothing had happened.

He set his empty bottle on the table and considered walking out.

As if sensing this, Viggo moved closer to Dominic, but not close enough to make him feel crowded. Another minute of silence passed while Dominic counted the mismatched plates on the plastic dish dryer next to the sink: five, one chipped.

"I think Billy and I are finished," he said finally.

"You think?"

_Figure out what you want._ What _did_ he want? He counted the plates in reverse order. Still five, still one chipped. "It's complicated."

"What isn't," Viggo said. "And is this why you came here?"

Viggo's voice carried an undertone of something Dominic took as an accusation. A mate, if he were a true mate, would pull out a bottle of booze and say, "Bugger him, Dom, you deserve better than that. Here, let's get plastered." He thought Viggo was a mate.

"You know what, you're right. I shouldn't have come," he said, but he didn't move from his place because Viggo's fingers closed around his shoulder. And because he really didn't want to leave.

Viggo leaned in. "That's not what I said."

"But isn't it what you meant?"

"Dominic, talk to me. What's going on?"

"What the fuck do you want from me?" The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to censor them.

Viggo's fingers dug in harder. "Stop behaving like a spoiled brat." Dominic jerked, but Viggo held him in place. "You're a little too old for that."

Viggo's voice was calm and quiet, and Dominic would rather have him yell. At least then he could yell back and not feel guilty about it.

He bit down on his lip, but before he came up with a response, a voice behind them said, "Viggo?"

Viggo's fingers slipped away from his shoulder, and their heat slipped away with them. It felt as if something keeping him in balance was taken away from him too, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

A man walked into the kitchen, pulling on a t-shirt. Dominic stared at his hard-muscled stomach before it disappeared under the fabric.

"I used up the rest of shampoo," the bloke said to Viggo. "Hope you don't mind."

"No, that's okay," Viggo said. "Ethan, this is Dominic. Dom, Ethan."

"Hey, man," Ethan said offering his hand and a smile.

Dominic could swear it was the _I was here first_ kind of a smile. Well, _fuck you._ He felt like punching him in the face, which wouldn't do as the guy had a good six inches on him and could probably beat him up with one hand. He braced himself for a handshake that would crush his bones or at least make him wince, but it didn't; Ethan's hand was warm and solid, and tanned. Dominic imagined it on Viggo's naked back, fingers splayed, leaving marks on Viggo's skin. His own hand curled into a fist.

"So ... I'll see you later?" Ethan said to Viggo.

The way he said it, it didn't sound like a question to Dominic.

Viggo made a move as if he wanted to pull Ethan into a hug, but he stopped and rubbed the back of Ethan's neck instead. "I'll call you."

The front door shut behind Ethan with a loud click, and once he was gone, the air in the room seemed to decompress.

Dominic gave Viggo a sideways look. He would have never thought that Viggo went for the tall, dark and gorgeous type. Maybe the rules were different in L.A.

"I was going to make pancakes before you came. Do you want some?" Viggo asked.

_Pancakes for your boy-toy?_ "No, thanks, 'm not hungry," Dominic said, but the idea of food made his mouth water, and his empty stomach announced its desire for pancakes with a loud growl.

Viggo raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, all right," Dominic said.

Viggo pulled up a chair. "Sit down then."

  
  
  


"So who's that Ethan bloke?" Dominic asked when Viggo set a plate full of pancakes in front of him. He'd whipped them up in under ten minutes while Dominic watched, trying not to salivate.

Viggo held Dominic's gaze. "A friend."

"A close friend?"

"Close enough."

"A fuck-me-through-the-mattress close friend?"

"More maple syrup?" Viggo pushed the bottle towards Dom. After a pause he said, "Why do you ask questions to which you know the answer?"

Dominic concentrated on his plate; he jabbed a pancake with a fork, tore off a piece, moved it around his plate, suddenly not that hungry anymore. "Because I'm a masochist?"

"Not in bed, you aren't."

Dominic's heart skipped a bit. He looked up. The smile on Viggo's face transformed it into something intimately familiar, and Dominic wanted to touch that smile so badly.

"It might've been a while, but there are some things I didn't forget," Viggo said and turned around to adjust the heat under the frying pan and pour more batter into it.

Dominic sat there, drawing a spiral pattern in the syrup on his plate among rapidly cooling pancakes. There were some things he didn't forget either.  
  


* * *  
  


Hours later, after another six-pack of beer and a tape of an old San Lorenzo match they watched on a small TV set in the study when the sun was setting behind the line of trees at the back of Viggo's garden, Dominic thought that he didn't feel like going home. His place felt suffocating, and not only because of the stacks of dirty dishes on every surface in the kitchen and his clothes scattered all over. Here, at Viggo's, he could _breathe_ and not think about what was coming next.

The invitation to stay for dinner was implied when Viggo took out a package of hamburgers from the freezer and went to start the rusty grill outside. When it was not used for barbecuing, the grill served as a residence for potted plants of all kinds. While Viggo was cooking hamburgers, Dominic improvised a salad from the lonely tomatoes he found in Viggo's almost empty fridge.

He walked out on the patio with a salad bowl in one hand, two bottles of beer in the other, and a half-empty bag of crisps under his arm. He set it all down on a wooden table with paint chipping off its surface, wondering why anybody would want to paint a table in this ridiculous blue color. Viggo must have found it on the side of the road or something.

"You need to go grocery shopping," he said. "There's only beer left in your fridge." Not like the content of his own fridge was any better, but he didn't volunteer that information.

"I know, sorry about that." Viggo flipped one of the burgers. "I've been busy."

"Fucking?"

"Painting." Viggo flipped another burger, cursing when it almost broke in half.

Dominic stuffed a handful of crisps into his mouth. "Well, and don't forget you're out of shampoo, too," he said with his mouth full, brushing crumbs off his t-shirt.

Without turning away from the grill, Viggo said, "Knock it the fuck off, Dom."

Dominic opened his mouth to respond but then thought better of it. He helped himself to more crisps.

With the hamburgers and the salad long gone, they sprawled in the low patio chairs, fresh bottles of beer in their hands. Dominic picked at the label on his bottle, noticing the chipping polish on his nails and specks of dirt stuck deep underneath. He tried to remember if he had taken a shower yesterday. He winced. He was a fucking mess, and not just in his head.

"So what's going on with you and Billy?" Viggo asked, taking a drag off his cigarette. He'd offered one to Dominic, but Dominic shook his head.

Dominic leaned back and relaxed. The cracked tiles of the patio under his bare feet felt like a map of some unknown territory—territory he was in no hurry to explore. "Don't want to talk about it now."

"Well then, what _do_ you want?"

"Are you telling me to go?"

"Stop reading into my words what I didn't say."

Dominic fought the urge to tell Viggo to fuck off.

"I don't want to go back to my place," he said instead in a quiet voice. "It's—" He lifted the bottle to his mouth, then, empty, set it on the ground. "I just don't want to go back there tonight."

Viggo stretched his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. "Clean towels are in the upstairs closet."

That was just like Viggo—no questions asked. "Thanks," Dominic said with a smile.

"Guest bedroom is the last door on the left."

He watched Viggo take another unhurried drag off his cigarette.

"I know," Dominic said, "where your guest bedroom is."

Viggo slowly blew out the smoke. "Then we are all settled."  
  


* * *  
  


He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. The bed was more comfortable than his own, and the sheets were certainly cleaner, and yet he was turning from side to side, with images and sounds, unfinished sentences and unspoken thoughts filling his head. What Viggo's face looked like when he touched Ethan—tender and smiling and as if shy; what Viggo's voice sounded like when he said he hadn't forgotten—as if he was talking about something that was still very much alive and vibrant and present. How long it had been since Billy, since anybody, had touched him.

He threw the covers off and lay on the bed naked and breathing heavily. The air was hot, and his mouth was parched. He pulled on his jeans to go get a beer, but he didn't make it to the kitchen.

Viggo's door was closed, and there was no light coming from inside as far as he could tell, but he was sure he could hear Viggo talking.

He hesitated, then stepped closer to the door and listened. He couldn't make out the words, only a murmur of Viggo's voice broken up with moments of silence—Viggo was talking on the phone. He rested his forehead against the wall and pretended he wasn't standing outside Viggo's door at one in the morning, thinking about Viggo having phone sex.

He didn't know for sure, couldn't hear the words, but he remembered the noises Viggo made when he was close, hard breathing punctuated with grunts—it made him sound as if each movement was pushing him deeper into a desperate frenzy with no return. He remembered the smell of Viggo's skin, sweaty, tired, and exciting—it would stay with him through long days of filming and into the following nights, and then it would envelop him again until the next sunrise. He remembered the sheets in Viggo's bed, tangled up and smelling of Viggo and of sex—they would cling to him, to his skin, as if they didn't want him to leave.

But he did leave one day and never came back.

Billy's sheets, he found out, smelled nothing like Viggo's.  
  


* * *  
  


The next morning arrived with the sunlight directly on his face and a feeling that the world was different somehow, out of place. Dominic opened one eye and squinted, trying to figure out where he was, before the memories of the day before clicked into place.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee tempted him out of bed and into the kitchen. Viggo wasn't there, but a note from him said he'd be back soon with breakfast. Barefoot, wearing only his jeans, Dominic walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. Viggo liked his coffee strong, too strong for Dominic's taste, but this one was perfect—just the way Dominic liked it. With the mug in his hand he shuffled from the kitchen onto the patio, back into the living room, into the study, and somehow—he wouldn't admit, intentionally—he ended up upstairs, in front of Viggo's bedroom. The door was wide open, so he figured it was fair game.

He set the mug on the dresser, among stacks of books, papers and magazines, notebooks and trinkets, and looked around.

The unmade bed spilling the sheets onto the carpet looked as if Viggo had just left it. He smoothed out one of the pillows seeking left-over warmth, but the fabric was cold under his fingers. Both nightstands were covered in more books and papers, the usual Viggo junk. He scanned the room for a photograph—of something, of someone—but for a man who almost lived with a camera in his pocket, Viggo had left this room surprisingly photograph-free.

He walked over to the nightstand on the right—Viggo always used to sleep on the right side of the bed. He hesitated. There was an unlocked door, and then there was going through somebody's things. He flipped a coin in his head and decided that if he was wrong, he would get out of here right away. He pulled the bottom drawer open, and it revealed an open box of condoms and a bottle of lube. Bingo. Satisfied with the deal he made with himself, he moved his exploration into the bathroom.

One toothbrush in the drinking cup. In the top drawer, another box of condoms, unopened. Two toothbrushes, still in their packages—he grabbed one and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. Tylenol and a half-full bottle of cough syrup with last year's expiration date in the cabinet behind the mirror. An open pack of razors of a brand he didn't recognize and another toothbrush, clearly used.

He banged the cabinet door shut and stared at his reflection in the mirror. What did he expect? A handwritten note from Viggo saying that no, in spite of what it might have looked like, Ethan never slept over?

He took out the toothbrush he'd stashed away in his pocket and brushed his teeth with Viggo's toothpaste, its minty-fresh flavor banishing the bitter taste of coffee from his mouth. When he was done, he considered leaving his toothbrush in Viggo's drinking cup, but in the end he put it back into his pocket and left the bathroom.

He opened Viggo's closet, ran his hand along the hangers with shirts and t-shirts, recognizing some of Viggo's old favorites. A brand new day deserved a fresh t-shirt, so he picked a black one with a drawing of a horse he remembered Viggo wearing in New Zealand. A long time ago. In another lifetime. Sometimes—when he sat listening to his phone that wasn't ringing off the hook with offers of new scripts for him to read—he felt as if it had never happened at all.

Back in the guest room, he shucked his jeans and stepped into the shower. He stood under the spray, letting hot water chase morning crankiness out of his body and out of his mind.

When he walked out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet skin with an oversized towel, Viggo was in the room. He was sitting on the unmade bed. Dominic froze with the towel in front of himself and a silly thought that he'd left a mess in the bathroom.

"I knocked," Viggo said.

"I was in the shower."

Viggo nodded as if acknowledging the fact.

Dominic's hands still clutching the towel in front of himself moved to rub his chest. Droplets of water from his hair dripped down his face and down the back of his neck, tickling his skin.

"I got something for you." Viggo's open palm revealed a bottle of black nail polish.

"Why?" Dominic asked. He took a step closer, but he didn't reach for the bottle.

"I thought you might need it."

Dominic took another step. His heart thudded too loud, too impatient. He didn't plan on that, but here they were. He swallowed hard and let go of the towel. It pooled at his feet. He didn't know if the sharp breath he heard was his or Viggo's. He straightened his shoulders, pulled in his stomach, and let Viggo look at him, mindless of the heat burning the top of his ears and traveling lower to set sparks inside his belly.

It took Viggo a long moment for his gaze to return to Dominic's face, and every second made Dominic shudder inside.

"Dom ..." Viggo said.

"What?" Dominic's hands curled into loose fists at his sides; without the towel they didn't know what to do. Other than touch Viggo.

"Just ... here." Viggo set the nail polish on the bed and stood. "I'll make us some breakfast, all right?"

He left without waiting for a reply.  
  


* * *  
  


"I never said thank you," Dominic said later when they were camped out in the living room—Dominic on the floor and Viggo in his favorite armchair by the window, with the sunlight coming in from behind him. It threw the outline of his body into sharp contrast.

Viggo raised his head from the notebook he'd been scribbling in. "Hm?"

Dominic lifted the nail polish bottle. "Thank you."

"Ah, you're welcome." With that, Viggo was lost in whatever worlds he was creating with his pencil in between the lines of his notebook.

Dominic scrutinized his nails. Painting them would not make the hangnails or broken edges go away, but it would make him feel better about himself. It would make him feel as if he were in control of at least some small part of his life.

"Why don't you ever paint all of them?" Viggo asked a few minutes later when Dominic was blowing on his freshly shining nails—three out of each hand.

"Because all of them would look daft."

Viggo quirked his lips. "Right, that makes a lot of sense."

On his knees, Dominic shuffled over to the armchair and reached for Viggo's hand. "Let me paint yours."

Viggo laughed and tried to pull his hand away. "No."

"One nail. You know you can't say no to me," he said.

"I just did."

Dominic remembered the way Viggo had looked at him this morning, as if he were an exquisite piece of art and Viggo wanted to run his hands along its every line and surface, and heat spread inside him. "But you didn't mean it."

He forced Viggo's hand back and set it on the armrest, palm down. This time Viggo didn't resist. With two strokes of the little brush, Dominic expertly painted the nail of Viggo's little finger.

"Now we match," he said, stroking the tips of his fingers over Viggo's, careful not to smudge the polish.

Viggo tensed under his touch. "We always did," he said and pulled his hand away. He stood up, letting his notebook slip off his knees and onto the floor. When he was almost out of the room, he said looking at the wall above Dominic's head, "Sorry, I have some calls to make."

Dominic didn't go after him.

The open notebook tempted him with its pages covered in words and drawings, meandering paths leading into Viggo's mind. Was his name written there somewhere, among the lines of poetry or fragments of Viggo's days jotted down in a margin?

He picked the notebook up, closed it and put in on the coffee table.  
  


* * *  
  


Viggo never asked how long Dominic was going to stay.  
  


* * *  
  


Dominic slipped off the headphones and clicked the remote to turn the stereo off. He was in his usual spot, sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, with a cushion stuffed under his lower back. He reached for another handful of pistachios from the bowl located conveniently next to him on the floor. They'd become a bit of a habit in the last week. He brushed empty shells off his lap and gathered them into a neat pile on the carpet.

"What are you reading?" he asked over his shoulder.

" _Love in the Time of Cholera._ " 

"Read some out loud."

He listened to Viggo's voice rising and falling, weaving an unknown melody through the words and sentences he devoured with greed even though he didn't understand them. In Spanish, Viggo's voice sounded different—more clear, more confident, more alluring.

He wished he could ask Viggo questions in Spanish.  
  


* * *  
  


He swept his tongue over the skin between the thumb of his left hand and the index finger, sprinkled it with salt and licked. He slammed the tequila shot down his throat and bit into a wedge of lime, its juice dripping down his mouth and cutting like a blade into the hard taste of alcohol.

"'s fuckin' good," he said.

"It's _añejo_. It should be fucking savored, not gulped down like this. You're only killing its taste with all that shit." Viggo, sprawled on the other end of the sofa, waved his hand vaguely in Dominic's direction.

"It's more fun this way." Holding out a wedge of lime and a pinch of salt, Dominic shifted closer to Viggo. "Try it."

Viggo shook his head. "You're hopeless." But he obediently licked his hand then licked the salt off it, before he took a shot and bit into the lime.

Dominic had a good buzz going. They started drinking at dinner, beer first and lots of it before Viggo pulled out the tequila. Getting drunk with Viggo was way better than getting drunk by himself, with only his own thoughts for company.

"'nother round," he said and poured two shots. He downed his quickly and handed the other glass to Viggo.

Viggo was lifting his hand to his mouth when Dominic stopped him.

"Wait." Dominic licked his own hand and sprinkled salt on it. He held it out to Viggo. "Here."

Viggo dipped his head to lick the salt. His tongue swirled around, his teeth scraped the delicate skin between Dominic's thumb and index finger. The tips of Dominic's fingers curled around Viggo's jaw as if it were the most natural thing to do.

Viggo pulled away and downed his shot, leaning his head back, exposing his throat. The sight of it made Dominic want to drip tequila and lime juice all over it and taste them right off Viggo's skin, mixed with his sweat. When Viggo reached for the piece of lime, Dominic grinned.

"How 'bout this?" He put the wedge in his mouth, holding it between his teeth, and crooked his finger at Viggo, beckoning him to come closer.

Viggo shook his head.

"Come on, don't be a pussy," Dominic said through the lime. It came out as _pusshy_.

"I'm not," Viggo said, but he didn't move. He traced the brim of the empty glass with his finger.

Way to spoil the fucking fun. Juice from the lime dripped into Dominic's mouth, poured over his tongue, shocking his taste buds as if it were the first time he'd tasted it this evening. He felt drunk and tired and stupid. He _was_ drunk and tired, and he was probably bloody stupid, too.

He lifted his hand to spit the lime into it when Viggo's fingers wrapped around his wrist. Inch by inch, like slow gravity, Viggo pulled him closer, until he could feel Viggo's breath on his skin. His eyes slipped shut. Viggo's mouth touched his. The lime slipped out of his mouth, and Viggo's tongue slipped in. A glass rolled off the sofa and clunked softly against the carpet. Viggo's lips were anything but soft—they were everything Dominic remembered and nothing at all, and the mix of the familiar and the new intoxicated him more than the combined force of the alcohol he'd poured into himself. He cradled the back of Viggo's head in both hands and shuddered when Viggo bit his lip. He was never going to let Viggo go, but the phone chirped from somewhere behind the sofa, and Viggo froze and pushed him away with one hand.

His gaze drifted away from Dominic when he reached over the side of the sofa, fumbling around to pick up the phone off the floor.

"Hello," he said and glanced at Dominic before sitting up and leaning forward. "Oh, hi Billy."

_Shit._ Dominic's head felt as if it weighed a ton and the room was closing in on him. Billy was the last person he wanted to talk to now.

Using the coffee table for balance, he pushed himself off the sofa with an unsteady hand and headed for the bathroom, avoiding eye-contact with Viggo. The lock of the bathroom door clicked into place with a soft, comforting sound. He wasn't running away—he did have to piss. And wash his face. And ...

He took care of business first, then turned on cold water and splashed his face. It didn't sober him up, but it did cut through the haze in his head, and it felt good on his skin. He dried his face with a towel.

He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on his knees, clutching his head between his hands. The questions he'd been running away from came back at him full speed, demanding answers. He stayed locked in the bathroom, determined not to open the door if Viggo knocked insisting that he talk to Billy. How very adult of him. Sod it. Sod it all. When was the last time he did something that made him feel like a responsible adult anyway?

When he decided it was safe to come back to the living room, Viggo wasn't talking on the phone anymore. He swirled his glass and took a small sip from it, no salt, no lime.

Dominic dropped heavily onto the sofa next to Viggo and tucked his legs under him. He picked at a loose thread at the bottom of his jeans.

Viggo was silent.

"Did you tell him I was here?" Dominic asked finally, focused on the piece of thread in his hand.

"He didn't ask."

"But if he had?"

Dominic couldn't read Viggo's silence, so he risked a glance. The creases along the sides of Viggo's face seemed deeper, sharper, making him look tired and guilty in some way. He wondered what Viggo would feel more guilty about: not telling Billy, or telling him.

"He asked me to take care of you," Viggo said. "And not let you drink too much."

"Right. And you're doing such a good fucking job of it." Billy had bloody yelled at him, but he was all nice to Viggo? Dominic poured himself another shot, a large one, finishing off the bottle, and raised it up, toasting Viggo.

Viggo didn't stop him. Dominic gulped down as much of the tequila as he could in a few big swallows, but then choked and coughed, spattering the rest of it around. He wiped his mouth with his hand and wiped his hand on his jeans. He wrapped his arms around his knees and closed his eyes. He was a fucking mess. And Billy hadn't yelled at him. It was Dominic who had done all the yelling.

_I can't fix you. Nobody can fix you, but you yourself, and the sooner you figure out what you want, the better for everybody_ —Billy's words came back to him, and he shook his head trying to push them away. Viggo could. Viggo could fix anything.

After a long stretch of silence, with his eyes still closed, because it was easier this way, he said, "Billy wanted me to come visit him in Mexico. To talk. And stuff."

"So why don't you?"

Dominic opened his eyes. "'cause I haven't got a car?"

"Come on, Dom." Viggo shook his head. "And how did you get here?"

Dominic shrugged. "I walked." That wasn't one hundred percent true, but he did hate taking buses, and that left him with a lot of walking.

"You realize what a lame excuse that is, right?"

Dominic shrugged again. "Who gives a shit."

"You do, in spite of what you want everybody else to think."

Dominic folded in on himself even more. He felt like running away. This, at least, was a familiar feeling, but there was nowhere for him to run away to. He bit down on his lip and tightened his arms around his knees, keeping himself in place. He tilted his head and rested his cheek on his knee. The fabric of his jeans felt rough and scratchy under his cheek. Everything looked different this way. Sideways. Only Viggo looked the same, like he never changed, no matter which side of the world they were on.

"Do you think Billy and I are good together?" he asked.

"I think ... " Viggo paused to finish off his glass. "I think that's something you need to figure out on your own."

"When I figure things out on my own, I usually end up passed out on the floor with enough booze in me to ensure a proper, I-think-I'm-dying hangover the next day," Dominic said. He wanted to touch the creases on Viggo's face and smooth them out, make them go away. He reached out, but he was too far away. He shifted, leaning on his hands and knees, and moved closer to Viggo. Viggo didn't move when Dominic straddled him. Now he could touch Viggo's face, he could touch anything he wanted—it was all within his reach. He brushed his finger down Viggo's cheek. Viggo's eyes were blue, so fucking blue, they made Dominic ache inside.

"You still want me to figure this out on my own?" he asked in low voice.

Viggo moved his hand from where it rested on the sofa and touched Dominic's thigh. "You're drunk off your ass."

"So are you."

"That's not the point." Viggo leaned back, to put more distance between them or maybe inviting Dominic to lean in closer.

Dominic took it as an invitation. "So what is the point?"

Viggo's other hand found its way to the small of Dominic's back; it slipped under the hem of his t-shirt.

"Come on, Viggo, what is the point?" Dominic asked, breathing hard. "What's the fucking point of anything?"

With all the booze he'd drunk, he wasn't hard yet, but when he ground his ass into Viggo's lap, pleasure jolted through him, deliciously, making him dizzy, making him forget everything and just want more. He pressed his palm against Viggo's zip and whispered into Viggo's ear, "You want it." His lips brushed Viggo's skin. "You know you want it."

Viggo groaned and pushed his hips up, against Dominic's hand.

Dominic licked a slow, wet path from under Viggo's ear, along his jaw, to his lips. He breathed in Viggo's scent, smoky and harsh, savoring it like he should have the tequila. He stroked his tongue along Viggo's mouth, pressing just hard enough, but not pushing himself inside.

When Viggo grabbed the back of his head and forced their mouths together, the feeling of being in control swept through him like a stunning release of all the frustrations of the last days, weeks, months. _Yes._ Viggo's mouth was warm and greedy, and it tasted of salt. Viggo's other hand clawed at his t-shirt, slipped underneath it, digging into his skin, wanting him. _Yes, fucking yes._

Viggo pushed up at him, rolled them both over. He closed his hands around Dominic's wrists and pinned them down. The heat of anticipation rolled heavily through Dominic's stomach. Viggo's face was right above his. He tried to lift up to kiss him, but Viggo moved his head away, out of reach.

For a long moment Viggo held him like that, not letting him move and not moving himself.

Dominic frowned. "What?"

Viggo smoothed a strand of hair off Dominic's face. "I do," he said and pressed the pads of two fingers to Dominic's lips as if trying to keep him from speaking. "I want it. But not like this."

He looked as if he was going to kiss Dominic again, but he didn't. He let go of Dominic and left.  
  


* * *  
  


Fumbling, Dominic reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and gulped it down, but it wasn't enough. Not turning on the light he went into the bathroom and drank straight from the faucet. He wiped his mouth and gripped the sink with both hands.

In the dream he was falling—the same dream again. He was falling through darkness, his hands reaching out in vain to grab onto something, but there was only thick darkness around him. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he kept on dreaming—what was at the end of the fall? Whatever it was, it couldn't have been worse than the falling.

He pulled on the borrowed tracksuit bottoms and left his room. The door to Viggo's bedroom wasn't shut all the way. He knocked, two short knocks that sounded too loud in the quiet house.

"Yeah," Viggo said right away, his voice without a trace of sleep.

Dominic pushed the door open. Viggo's bedroom was dark, with only a sliver of light from the moonlight. He couldn't see Viggo's face, only a vague outline of his body against the sheets.

"Hi," Viggo said.

Dominic didn't come armed with a speech or anything, not with his usual cocksureness, not with his swagger—he didn't come armed at all.

"Can I sleep here tonight?" he asked.

After a moment of silence Viggo said, "Dom, this is not a good—"

"Don't. Don't say this is not a good idea." Dominic rubbed his face with his hand. In a quiet voice he continued, "I don't want to be alone tonight. Can I sleep here? Just sleep? I'll be good, I swear." He ran out of words.

He was waiting and waiting, it seemed, before the sheets rustled and Viggo moved over to one side of the bed. "Come on."

Still wearing the track pants he crawled into bed and under the covers, making sure to stay on his side of the bed and not touch Viggo. The pillow was warm, and it carried the familiar scent of warm skin and of Viggo. He breathed it in deeply, settling himself down.

"You got really wasted tonight. Did you drink enough water?" Viggo asked.

"Yeah."

"There's a full glass on the nightstand."

Dominic nodded, even though Viggo couldn't see it. He rolled over to face the wall and rested his cheek on his palm. "Viggo?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything."

"What are friends for."

He was almost asleep when Viggo moved behind him, shifting closer. Viggo's hand touched his hip and rested there, warm and solid. It wasn't a demand, and it wasn't an invitation—it was just Viggo holding him and not letting him run away. He closed his eyes again and for the first time in a long while, in the darkness of Viggo's bedroom, he wasn't falling anymore.  
  


* * *  
  


When he woke up in the morning, two things became clear even before he opened his eyes: his hangover was not nearly as bad as he'd expected, and he was alone in bed. He listened for the sounds in the house, but there was only silence.

The morning sun was forcing its way in through the blinds, and some part of him wanted to stay in bed all day and do nothing, but he had to use the bathroom.

A few minutes later he walked into the kitchen, but Viggo wasn't there either. On the kitchen table he found a page torn out from a yellow legal pad, and on top of it, the keys to Viggo's truck. The note, written in Viggo sprawling handwriting, said:

  


_It's a long walk to Mexico. Better take these._

_V._

  


Dominic ran his fingers over the writing on the note, as if trying to discover some invisible message in between the words, but there was nothing else. And it was enough.

He picked up the keys, weighed them in his hand and smiled. Viggo knew him too well.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, he was pulling out of Viggo's driveway, heading south. He stopped for breakfast and forced himself to eat even though he wasn't hungry. He didn't bring his mobile when he left his house—he couldn't find it, and it had been probably dead anyway—and he didn't have any change on him, but the center console in Viggo's truck revealed a stack of CDs without covers and a stash of coins. He grabbed a handful of quarters and looked for a pay phone.

He dialed Viggo's home, and when there was no answer, he dialed Viggo's mobile. When Viggo answered, his voice was rough, as if his "Hello" had been the first thing he'd said this morning.

Without introductions Dominic asked, "Last night, when you said you wanted me, but not like this—did you mean not drunk like this, or not until I sort things out with Billy?"

"Where are you?" Viggo asked.

"At a rest stop on I-5, about an hour from the border. Answer my question."

"Why do you keep asking questions to which you know the answer?"

A smile tugged at the corners of Dominic's mouth, and he gave in to it. "Haven't we done this before?"

"Second time's the charm, that's what they say."

The sun shone straight into Dominic's face. He took off Viggo's sunglasses he'd found in the truck and closed his eyes against the sunlight, letting it warm his face. _Third. Third time's the charm,_ he thought, but out loud he said, "What about Ethan?"

"You didn't seem very concerned about Ethan last night."

_Neither did you,_ he wanted to respond but there was no disapproval in Viggo's voice, just stating a fact. Dominic gripped the receiver tighter. "So, when I come back ..." He took a deep breath. "When I come back, will you still—"

"Dom, you can't do that. Whatever you do, you can't do it because of me. You have to do it because of _you,_ and the rest will sort itself out, one way or another."

"You're a bastard."

"I thought you knew," Viggo said, laughing—low, quiet laughter, that always made his eyes crinkle.

Dominic wanted to feel that laughter ripple under his fingertips.

He dragged a finger along the metal edge of the phone booth. "So I'll call you after—" He pressed the pad of his thumb against the metal. "I'll call you."

"Drive safely, Dominic, and remember, don't drink the water." Viggo hung up.

Dominic slipped Viggo's sunglasses back on, unlocked the truck on and climbed in. This time, he knew where he was going and why. It was a start.  
  


(end)


End file.
